Horny Little Devils, Happy Little Souls
by The Fibonaccist
Summary: The best part of winning a bet is winning it on a technicality... and getting attention, of course.  PFL, rated M for naughty things and naughty language.


It's times like this, door shut, eyes shut- make it worth coming to work sometimes. Everything I know, right? Buddy gave me a run for my money going on four years before he finally opened up. I think about that too- night full of shots and shitty kung fu flicks before he started talking. Couldn't make him stop. Couldn't make _me_ stop. That was it. Nobody ever gets a word. No looks, not for any-fucking-one looking for some bleeding heart- some shit like that. Fuckin' women.

I'm used to how my hand feels. I like it that way. Used to everything that happens to this hand. That knuckle's knocked a little ways to the left from a bad punch- leaves a lump in my palm nobody believes, thinks I shoulda gone to a hospital, thinks I can't use my hand even when they watch me prove'em wrong. This finger's twisted a little backward, healed that way after it ran into a brick or fifty. Works fine if I concentrate. That scar on my palm, the one so thick it feels like a tongue every time I play? Heh. Buddy Boy put that one there. I like to think it's his.

Sometimes it ain't my hand, sometimes pulls too hard, sometimes holds too tight. I like that too. I don't like anything today. Been a week out of nightcaps and rolls on a bet. Fucking sadist and his fucking bets. I don't like the way my throat scratches like I swallowed a goddamn cat. Ten fifteen tonight is when the time's up. That'll get me half his fucking paycheck, we'll see who's a sadist then. I got plans for that cash. Drown the fucking cat.

Sometimes I like hearing myself breathe when I do this. When I say things even I don't understand, just know what they mean. Times like this, everything I say just means one thing anyway. Makes me wonder who's got the security grid. I wonder if they have the audio feeds running. Wonder if they can hear me. Wonder if they want to. Not that I care if I'm watched, but one eye screws the lid up so I can get a glimpse. Whaddya know? Greenie's flickering.

We rigged the cameras in our office a long time ago to rile up a little like that when someone had our feed running. We can deflect'em to a prior hour feed, too- gives us a chance to fuck around and fight when we have to, without getting our asses handed back to us by Kid ShinRa. It's gotten to the point where whoever's on grid goon duty just ignores the office. They always see the same thing anyway.

I still got a coupla wits to spare. Gotta use'em both to get my boots on the desk for a VIP view, and after that, you're on your own, pervert. Here comes the noise, and now I notice the draft in my hair from the corner fan. Kinda feels like his hands when we tussle. Fucker likes pulling my hair when we fight. Says he's gonna make me look just like him, laughs until I kick him up near his nuts. Nah, not a straight hit- I don't play dirty like that. I give'em an inch. When we fight, anyway. Ten-fucking-fifteen'll get him the fight of his life tonight.

Come to think of it, he shoulda been here five minutes ago. We got paperwork to kill. He ain't gone yet- I watched the cars goin' when I started. Then I know. My insides start twitching when I know, and it takes a lot of slowing down to give me what it takes to open both my eyes and smile up.

It hits me, right the fuck now, that it's ending up the perfect self-service. You go this long without your vices, the imaginaries get fuckin' tangible. I can feel the ache in my hips that I'm used to, muscles sting like I'm used to, I can feel my throat coated with imaginary warm vodka. Tastes like piss warm, but it's booze. I like the warmth of a half-buzz sitting in my stomach to go along with it. little dizzy around the edges there.

And what's one good turn without another? When I can focus on the camera, even when I can't lift my head for it, hips are still coming up to my fist like a happy fucking dog. Kinda hard to force anything intelligible when I'm on my way, may not even work, but it's worth a shot.

"Rude... y'dirty little fuck..." It's more of a rasp than an insult from a throat this dry. "Better like what y'see, asshole... s'gonna be all you- f-fuck- fuckin' see when I'm done with you..." Jackpot. Bye, greenie. Laughing hurts my throat, but it's worth it. Two minutes tops- the fucker manhandles the door open and stares at me like I've got six dicks.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Practicing."

"..."

"Yeah, keep standin' there. Almost done. T-turn your ass this way some."

So close when the hands come down on either side of my chair like a pair of Midgar pillars- I make the worst fucking jokes when I'm doing this- and the shades are right the fuck in front of me. "Reneging the bet?" And I wanna eat the stupid smirk right off his pretty fucking face.

"Said no booze," I manage. "No fucking. I'm still clean."

"...I can't believe you're pulling technicalities out of your ass for this."

"Had to- hhhayeah- had to keep somethin' in there t'keep me company."

Hearing him laugh has to be one of my favorite things in the world to hear outside the fuck bubble. I don't even notice when he shifts until his hand's got mine with that too-hard-too-tight kind of good. When I have the brains to look down again, it's because his stupid fucking everyman goatee hit the tip. This close, it kinda feels good, and I can't really help the hip thing I just did to his face.

It's good when he takes the hint. It's hot all around going down, kinda rivals an EMR jolt when I hit the back of his throat, and it's something close to paralyzing when he fucking HUMS. Dirty cheating fucktard.

"MotherFUCK- dude, y'showed up- FUCK t-too... fuck... too la-" before I choke on the last part. Pass go, collect whatever the fuck you want, you're a champ, thanks for playin'. You try saying anything out of standard fuck language when you lose it. Then you can laugh at me. But he still took his sweet time, cost him the fun of a decent blow. Swallows like a good boy anyway, holds me down when I'm- forgive me, Shiva- shakin' like a man in a fuzzy tree.

Sometimes he says I sound like an embarrassment when I come, but look who's talking, Mr. Fucking Robot. I like hearing him anyway- little grunt here, maybe a curse in my hair makes it worth it every time. But this? This is a hell of a treat from him. He knows how to do it, and he does it so I sound like a rookie hooker who still likes her job too much. I like when he does that thing with his tongue where he milks it longer than I should be giving it. So maybe I didn't like today, but it's a hell of a lot better. Drunken fuck without the substance.

When I can actually move again, I wanna hook my foot under his leg to, you know, return the favor? Fucker pushes me back. Only time he does that's when someone's looking, or he finished himself off first.

"Dirty dog," I scold with a hoarse laugh. "Hope there are tissues in the control room, huh?"

He snorts, but doesn't grace me with an answer. "Lucky little shit," he grumbles, licking his lips and losing his own side of the bet- being able to say no for the same week I can't ask. Just in case I manage to lose... not gonna happen, especially now. This'll give me the prick's whole check, and ten fifteen's gonna make him sorry.

Sweet little technicalities.


End file.
